Paris With Kids

Two summers ago, my husband Will and I, newly married, headed to Paris for a romantic weekend. We stayed at L’Hotel, a swanky, sexy boutique property beloved by party animals like Mick Jagger and Oscar Wilde; we danced ‘til dawn at a friend’s wedding; we drank carafe after carafe of Bordeaux in the afternoon at the cafe La Palette; we hunted down secretive cocktail dens and indulged in decadent three hour dinners at sought-after spots like Spring, walking home across the Seine long past midnight. It was heaven, and a thoroughly adult experience, complete with a thoroughly adult price tag and thoroughly adult hangovers. Were there children in Paris? Shrug. I barely noticed.

Fast forward to 2013, and our family of two had become a family of three. Our son Axel was now 11 months old, and on the move, eager to crawl and scoot and climb and laugh at strangers and babble and screech mysteriously to himself. I was newly, still secretly pregnant with our second child, and we were feeling a surge of wanderlust. It was our very first big adventure with our son without extended family, without the obligations of holiday traditions, and also likely the only international escape the three of us would have before we became four. {"type": "right-quote", "text": "Parisians, steely and cold though they may seem in some instances, are generally a family-friendly lot."}

Bravely, we chose Paris all over again.

Anyone who has read the book Bringing up Bébé, by the American mother-in-Paris Pamela Druckerman, might rightly be terrified of bringing their child to a city where children apparently comport themselves like miniature adults, eat aged cheeses with gusto, and sit decorously while their parents discuss art and politics during their fourth course of dinner. Once we scratched the surface, though, Paris was a natural fit for babies (stereotypes be damned.) As it turns out Parisian children wreak just as much havoc as our little American. They’re just a little better dressed when they do so. And Parisians, steely and cold though they may seem in some instances, are generally a family-friendly lot.

We were regularly stopped and asked all about Axel and his particular habits; Did he sleep through the night? Was he “sage” (a French catch all for ‘chilled out and well behaved’?) Far from turning their nose up at this little person, Parisians used Axel as an ice breaker. One taxi driver told us about his three lactose intolerant French babies (the horror!); another said he and his wife were ‘trying’ and said repeatedly “Children are a blessing.” Scowling elderly ladies stopped us in the street to announce we had “un beau bébé,” before shuffling along on their way.

One of the keys to our success was undoubtedly the postage stamp-sized apartment we rented in the Marais. Steps from the Place des Vosges, our apartment came with a sleek little kitchen, a travel crib for the boy, WiFi and a laptop for emergency Peppa Pig sessions, and a washer and dryer. It wasn’t rock star-bait, perhaps, but it was situated in an arrondissement jam-packed with just-so boulangeries, redolent cafés, and boutiques. We were in the thick of fashionable Paris, and yet had a little retreat where we could wash bottles and let the baby loose for a few hours. {"type": "left-quote", "text": "A little boy and girl, well-coiffed and well-heeled, began singing the very sweet French lullabye “Dodo, L’Enfant Do.”"}

In the mornings, the manicured park where Victor Hugo dreamed up Jean Valjean was packed with Parisian parents and their children. Up early (instead of sleeping off our Pastis), we had been inducted into a sort of secret society. The parents gave us tips on places like the Jardin des Plantes, and smiled wearily and knowingly when a little one began to whimper, on the verge of a meltdown.

Though we visited Versailles and the Musée D’Orsay and consumed our fair shares of steak frites, much of the joy of Paris, this time, was in the small stuff. There was a sweet pleasure in finding places Axel would love, like Les Trois Ours, the charming little toy store on the rue du Turenne, or in stopping at a boulangerie to buy him a fresh baguette to gum. One night, we bought falafel at a stand in the Marais and walked down to the banks of the Seine, which were packed with French students eating bread and cheese and quaffing wine. As we ate one of the most delicious meals I’ve had in Paris, Axel watched the Bateaux Mouches stream past as the lights came on on the city’s bridges.

At Bonton, the hip kids’ department store, we bought him classic children’s books while he slept in the stroller. As I leafed through the pages of Max et les Maximonstres, a little boy and girl, well-coiffed and well-heeled, shopping with their mother, peered in at him and began singing the very sweet French lullabye “Dodo, L’Enfant Do.”

It was one of those blissful Parisian moments, like hearing “La Vie en Rose” as you climb the steps of Montmartre, that makes you feel full and present and lucky. And one of the reasons we’ll keep coming back, our expanding brood in tow.

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